But losh me! I had mostly forgot the piper, that played in the middle, as proud as Hezekiah, that we read of in Second Kings, strutting about from side to side with his bare legs and big buckles, and bit Macgregor tartan jacket—his cheeks blown up with wind like a smith’s bellows—the feathers dirling with conceit in his bonnet—and the drone, below his oxter, squeeling and skirling like an evil spirit tied up in a green bag. Keep us all! what gleys he gied about him to observe that the folk were looking at him! He put me in mind of the song that old Barny used to sing about the streets—
Ilka ane his sword and dirk has,
Ilka ane as proud’s a Turk is;
There’s the Grants o’ Tullochgorum,
Wi’ their pipers gaun before ’em;
Proud the mithers are that bore ’em.
Feedle, faddle, fa, fum.
But who do ye think should come up to us at this blessed moment, with a staff in his hand, being old now, and not able to ride in the procession, as he had many a time and often done before, but honest Saunders Tram, that had been a staunch customer of mine since the day on which I opened shop, and to whom I had made countless pairs of corduroy spatterdashes; so we shook hands jocosely together, like old acquaintances, and the body hodged and leuch as if he had found a fiddle, he was so glad to see me.
Benjie having fallen asleep, Luckie Barm of the Change, a douce woman, put him to his bed, and promised to take care of him till we came back; Saunders Tram insisting on us to go forward along with him to see the race. I had no great scruple to do this, as I thought Benjie would likely sleep for an hour, being wearied with the joggling of the cart, and having supped a mutchkin bowlful of Luckie Barm’s broo and bread.
By the time we had tramped on to the braehead, two or three had booked for the race, and were busy pulling away the flowers that hung over about their horses’ lugs, to say little of the tapes and twine; and which made them look, poor brutes, as if they were not very sure what was the matter with them. Meanwhile, there was a terrible uproar between my lord and a man from Edinburgh Grassmarket, leading a
limping horse, covered with a dirty sheet, with two holes for the beast’s een looking out at.
But, for all this outward care, the poor thing seemed very like as if wind was more plenty in the land than corn, being thin and starved-looking, and as lame as Vulcan in the off hind-leg. So ye see the managers of the box insisted on its not running; and the man said “it had a right to run as well as any other horse”; and my lord said “it had no such thing, as it was not in the box”; and the man said “he would take out a protest”; and my lord said “he didna gie a bawbee for a protest; and that he would not allow him to run on any account whatsoever”; but the man was throng all the time they were argle-bargling taking the cover off the beast’s back, that was ready saddled, and as accoutred for running as our regiment of volunteers was for fighting on field-days. So he swore like a trooper, that, notwithstanding all their debarring, he would run in spite of their teeth—both my lord’s teeth, ye observe, and that of the two key-keepers;—maybe, too, of the man that carried the saddle, for he aye lent in a word at my lord’s back, egging him on to stand out for the laws to the last drop of his blood.
To cut a long tale short, the drum ruffed, and off set four of them, a black one, and a white one, and a brown one, and the man’s one, neck and neck, as neat as you like. The race course was along the high road; and, dog on it, they made a noise like thunder, throwing
out their big heavy feet behind them, and whisking their tails from side to side as if they would have dung out one another’s een; till, not being used to gallop, they at last began to funk and fling; syne first one stopping, and then another, wheeling round and round about like peiries, in spite of the riders whipping them, and pulling them by the heads. The man’s mare, however, from the Grassmarket, with the limping leg, carried on, followed by the white one, an old tough brute, that had belonged in its youth to a trumpeter of the Scots Greys; and, to tell the truth, it showed mettle still, though far past its best; so back they came, neck and neck, all the folk crying, and holloing, and clapping their hands—some “Weel dune the lame ane—five shillings on the lame ane”;—and others, “Weel run Bonaparte—at him, auld Bonaparte—two to one that Whitey beats him all to sticks,”—when, dismal to relate, the limping-legged ane couped the creels, and old white Bonaparte came in with his tail cocked amid loud cheering, and no small clapping of hands.
We all ran down the road to the place where the limping horse was lying, for it was never like to rise up again any more than the bit rider, that was thrown over its head like an arrow out of a bow; but on helping him to his feet, save and except the fright, two wide screeds across his trowser-knees, and a scratch along the brig of his nose, nothing visible was to be